In the House of the Hangman 1551

It’s a stupid question, but maybe will help you to see what I mean when I use the word “poetics”, or “poetry”. What was Marx referring to when he was talking about the “poetry of the future”, for example? And what use is that in thinking about prosody? Anyway. Christ, you could include data about the weather-systems on Neptune if you wanted to. What would happen to this map, I’ve been asking myself, plague is a bad metaphor, that’s its accuracy, as in a single node of extraction made up, for example, of the precise percentage of the world’s population who will never again be called by name. Each one of those names – and we know none of them – is the predominant running metaphor of the entire culture, a net of symptom splinters producing abdominal pain and difficulty breathing. OK? But there was one woman who spoke, she had nothing to do with the organisation, they’d got her up there for obvious reasons, yeh, and she lived on an estate somewhere and her son, he’d been on curfew and the cops had turned up, without warning, at his flat. To check up or something. Anyway, according to the cops, he leapt 16 floors down, and they told her he’d killed himself, “and I know my boy”, his mother said from top table, “and he wouldn’t have jumped, he wouldn’t have killed himself, not for them, not for anyone, not for the cops”, and her voice cracked a little and then she said “and as for the riots, I thought they were fair enough, and I think there should be more of them, and more, and more.” And then she stopped and there was some applause, but it was a little shaken and a little nervous. Whatever. Here’s a statistic for you, an elegant little metric foot: not one police officer in the UK has been convicted for a death in police custody since 1969. Get that? A lifetime. I think that’s what she was getting at, at the meeting: every cop, living or dead, is a walking plague-pit. Anti-constellations cutting through chronology, an injection of three droplets of the weather on Neptune into each malevolently flashing unit of time tumbling backwards through all of written history, all 16 spirals of it. Who was it, maybe Raoul Vaneigem, who wrote something about how we are trapped between two worlds, one that we do not accept, and one that does not exist. And yet the great silence is full of noises. And that’s what I mean when I talk about poetics. “The fighting fish at first looks just like a fish” is from Norma Cole’s Do The Monkey -- for some reason I feel like I need to add that. “The whole futile body was suffused by transparency. The whole useless body was invaded by transparency. Little by little the body turned into light. Its blood into a beam. Its limbs froze in an unintelligible movement. And the man was no more than a sign among the constellations.” This particular piece of wishful thinking is derived from your relatively recent experiences in this line of business and your ongoing shock that … You do however discover that the uber-friendly Google machine will show you, exclusively, a whole pile of Bacon's ‘meat’ paintings but you decided that you’d rather stay with the dissembling of tantrums as a means of exchangeable passion, Vertigo at the horizon, prostrate as an outstretched cheek; but in the mouth that grows in capacity behind that overflow, ‘Vertigo’ doesn't need the big v. The appearance of love is intriguing and you think you recall love and solidarity ................................. But reality is not at the bottom of the abyss, the abyss is in time just reality being itself, at least to begin with and at the same time conclusively as if contracted – soft – to a single point (a dot) at the end of the universe, when dark matter is a distant memory subject for chastisement to the fluctuations of military nostalgia (in her foot) and I am not sure to go on, or how to, or even what name that is any more, whoever you are I do this for, person this human this, this window for this crack or even if I do it, and probably I don't, the strings on a thousand dolls. Maybe this is that moment in the factory of life when the industrial machine breaks and some large thing falls toward the soft skull and the body wonders for a long while if it will be crushed. And then the alligator-machine either attacks with its metal teeth, or it smacks the floor and rolls away as one goes back to the process of sticking another cog in some thing along the belt that moves forward incessantly. I grabbed the broom with my hands and then aimed it at the gator’s face. O Tristan, O Jerry, O “it’s corn mush” and “red headed Leah”!! As a Marxist let me add: if somebody tells you that Lacan is difficult, this is class propaganda by the enemy! The Air In Here Is Fresh, or at least it smells that way. It’s not actually the deepest of the boreholes — that honor goes to the Kola Superdeep — but it is the deepest one accessible. Around this steel box in a narrow path paced a black bull, cold, snorting, sick and snotting, and with both his horns shorn ... at some point I noticed a biting pain in my foot, and looked to see he had already eaten some of me. I popped open one of my teeth with a latch, which was somehow ‘chemically coded’, and in another tooth above it a small lens could view the now open tooth as a tiny laptop inside my mind. I entered in a code, and in a few seconds a glass dart began ooching its way through my forearm’s skin ... Using an em blast of some kind build from synthetic muscle batteries stacked in the nuzzle I blasted through the wall to see if I could get a beacon out ... Like you, I grew up deep inside a Maserati. And I’m also from a safe district overseas. A wilderness created deep inside the seminar, but I digress: y+z. 1-x. Bubbles in a plastic bag. My name is buried in a hat. [He looks for it.] Yes it is Abulafia. See. It is Abraham Abulafia. The mine is big because it has to be. An avalanche there set off earthquakes.